John’s Birth / Dad’s Death (part 2)

I am finally coming to the nut of this story; the story of John’s birth and my father’s death. This is the story I knew I would have to write someday, but have not been able to face. I’ve been avoiding it for months, and I am going to avoid it for just a few more paragraphs of context. My open confession is just around the corner.

The year was 1984 when my folks had to fly to Cedar Rapids immediately after John’s birth on July 25. They were forced to leave their car at my house in Stone Mountain, GA. I’d offered to drive their car back up to Cedar Rapids and fly back to Stone Mountain. It was 15 hours of driving spread over two days, but you do that when you are 32 and there is an emergency. I was abandoning Jean at home after some serious surgery with 3-year old Ann and 1-week old John. I also had a demanding job I was also temporarily deserting. I needed to be in several places, but could only be in one of them at a time. We quickly arranged for Jean’s mom to come sooner rather than later to lend a hand during my absence.

I made the trip up to Cedar Rapids roughly a week after John was born. By that time the doctors had determined that Dad had brain cancer. It wasn’t too surprising that Dad decided to fight it rather than go into hospice. Being passive isn’t exactly a family trait. I might be the only passive member of the family, which is why I always asked my folks if I was adopted. (I have to put a little humor in this gloomy piece.)

I spent roughly a week with Dad at the hospital. The drugs and radiation temporarily restored Dad’s mental abilities. Between Dad’s medical treatments we had a great time watching the Olympics and adding our own editorial comments about the athletes’ performances. We took walks up and down the halls with Dad’s IV pole in tow during boring events. During that week I was thinking that this was, in all likelihood, the last time I would see my father. I was deliberating what I was going to say and do when that last moment came and I had to leave him for the last time.

In particular I was thinking about how my Dad and I had not given each other a hug or said “I love you” for 20+ years. We were not demonstrative for the following feeble reason -

I remember during my elementary school years that I gave Mom and Dad a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and an “I love you”, before heading off to bed each night. I don’t know how it started; it may have been taught, or it could have been my own toddler invention. One night, after the hug and kiss, Dad said to me, “Aren’t you getting a little old for this kid stuff?” Dad’s question seemed to contain the answer. I took the question to mean that my behavior was no longer appropriate. So I quit giving my Dad a hug and a kiss, and quit saying “I love you”. I must have been around 10 years old at the time; roughly 1962.

So there you have it; Dad and I had not hugged or said “I love you” to each other for 20 years. Dad was just not a sentimental or demonstrative man. We shook hands. We said “How ya doing?” We pushed each other around in the kitchen in a playful manner like we did when I was a kid. I don’t doubt that Dad loved me. He just couldn’t say it. Yet he did by attending every concert, recital, play, and sporting event he could reach within driving distance. He visited our house as often as was reasonable. That was as demonstrative as my dad could get.

As my last day at the hospital approached I didn’t know what to do. I’d dithered all week long trying to make up my mind. My dad was dying of cancer. We had not said “I love you” in 20 years. Should I dictate what our last moments together will be by finally saying the words, “I love you”, and risk an embarrassing emotional moment my father doesn’t want? Or do I let the last moment play out as he wants it to be? Should I let Dad determine the last words that we say to each other?

Meredith Wilson was right about Iowans in the Music Man when he said, “And we’re so by-gone stubborn, we can stand touching noses for a week at a time, and never see eye-to-eye”. That would be me and my dad.

I delayed my departure for the airport to the last possible moment and still catch my flight. I walked Dad down to the door of the radiation department in the basement of the hospital. I said, “Dad, I have to go catch the plane now”. He said, “Yeah, I gotta go do this”, and threw a thumb toward the door behind him. He put out his hand and said, “See you later.” I shook his hand and said, “Yeah, see you later.” Without any hesitation Dad turned, opened the door, and entered the radiation department. Without saying a word I stood there and watched the door close behind him.


I never saw Dad alive again.


Dad died of brain cancer on September 29, 1984.


I never told him I loved him, but I did, and I do. I hope he knows that.


That is why I tell my kids I love them every time I talk to them.